


whiskey in candlelight

by anoddconstellationofthoughts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (there's only one and it's brief), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Mild Gore, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, did i mention the pining, eskel and yennefer Know, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/pseuds/anoddconstellationofthoughts
Summary: Geralt falls first.He doesn’t know how, but he does. It’s undeniable in the way his chest aches when Jaskier laughs, the way his throat constricts when Jaskier touches him, the way his dreams show him what he tries so desperately to ignore.He’s never been in love before. He doesn’t know what it’s like. It hurts more than he thought it would, but he finds it’s the kind of pain he’s learned how to savor.Geralt falls first.Although, to say he falls first implies that Jaskier would fall for him back. Which, of course, is a mere fantasy with no holding in the real world. This may be Geralt’s first time in love, but he’s not stupid. He’s very realistic about his chances and where he and the bard stand. No matter how fast his sluggish heart tries to beat, he always shoves it down, always keeps it hidden.So Geralt falls. He falls before he’s even realized just how much his companion means to him. He falls with no idea how to stop it, how to continue going about his life without thisweight,thistether,wrapped around the lump of tissue in his chest, the rope sharp and suffocating.Geralt falls, and he makes the sensation of free-falling his home.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Minor or Background Relationship(s):
Comments: 42
Kudos: 339





	whiskey in candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is mostly based off of the netflix show and a handful of other things i've gleaned from the witcher wiki and other fics. as a disclaimer, i have no idea what basilisk venom is actually supposed to do, nor do i have a very tight hold on any of the witchers' personalities besides geralt's, hence their very brief appearance. i did my best, but if there's anything that i should know or change there, feel free to let me know.  
> also, for context, this fic begins after the banquet in cintra. geralt and jaskier make up quickly after that for my ahhhh convenience.  
> enjoy!

Geralt falls first.

He doesn’t know how, but he does. It’s undeniable in the way his chest aches when Jaskier laughs, the way his throat constricts when Jaskier touches him, the way his dreams show him what he tries so desperately to ignore. 

He’s never been in love before. He doesn’t know what it’s like. It hurts more than he thought it would, but he finds it’s the kind of pain he’s learned how to savor.

Geralt falls first. 

Although, to say he falls _first_ implies that Jaskier would fall for him back. Which, of course, is a mere fantasy with no holding in the real world. This may be Geralt’s first time in love, but he’s not stupid. He’s very realistic about his chances and where he and the bard stand. No matter how fast his sluggish heart tries to beat, he always shoves it down, always keeps it hidden.

So Geralt falls. He falls before he’s even realized just how much his companion means to him. He falls with no idea how to stop it, how to continue going about his life without this _weight_ , this _tether,_ wrapped around the lump of tissue in his chest, the rope sharp and suffocating.

Geralt falls, and he makes the sensation of free-falling his home.

When they’re in town, Jaskier takes someone new into his bed almost every night.

He never literally takes them into _his_ bed, never lets them set foot into the rented room that he and Geralt share. He says that he respects the witcher too much, that he wouldn’t make Geralt suffer the thought and scent and presence of a stranger in their room. He promises he’ll never make him endure that.

Geralt thinks to himself that he’d like very much to _endure_ _that_ , but he keeps it to himself. He doesn’t mean it in the way Jaskier means. But that’s alright. 

Sometimes, Geralt stops by a brothel. If they allow it, he goes in and pays for a girl. He always gets off and so does she. But he never feels any better for it.

Jaskier goes with him on occasion. Always gets a different girl, a different room.

Geralt pretends he can’t hear him. 

Geralt finds himself pretending a lot these days.

Surprisingly enough, it only takes a couple weeks for Jaskier to notice and call him out on it. They’re out in the middle of nowhere, dense trees lining a sandy footpath as far as the eye can see. The dappled light that trickles to the ground shines in golden patches on small shrubs and rocks, and Geralt thinks to himself that, were he a different person, he might find it beautiful. There’s no beginning or end in sight, and he thinks that’s what he enjoys about it. He’s always found comfort in oblivion. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s not as scared of being in love with Jaskier as he should be. Oblivion can be found in love, too.

Jaskier’s chattering interrupts the soft smile playing on his lips. 

“Alright, what the hell is up with you?”

Geralt blinks slowly, twisting Roach’s reigns in his hand. “Hm?”

“You’ve been quiet,” Jaskier kicks a rock with the toe of his tall leather boot. Geralt always found those obnoxious, but lately they’d been rather endearing. 

Everything about Jaskier is endearing.

“See, there you go again!” Jaskier exclaims, halting on the path. He places one hand on his hip and points a haughty finger at the witcher’s sternum. “You go quiet, and not your normal kind of quiet, but the kind where I can tell you’re not listening to me but it’s good, and you soften, and then sometimes you smile? And it’s not as though you never smile, but you never smile at yourself and-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles placatingly. Roach nickers from beside him, impatient. “What are you going on about?”

“You just-” the bard sighs. “You seem different, and I was wondering what it was because, you know, we’re best friends and we tell each other everything.” He pauses, thoughtful. “At least _I_ tell _you_ everything, so I thought maybe you could return the favor. If you wanted.” 

Geralt considers it. What would he even say?

_I think I love you._

Mm. Nah.

The witcher shakes his head and continues walking, tugging Roach along. Jaskier squawks behind him, indignation cracking his usually smooth voice.

“Geralt!”

“Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt says over his shoulder. “We have a deadline to meet.”

There was no movement from the bard. “I’m not leaving this spot until you tell me what it is!”

“Goodbye, Jaskier,” Geralt calls. Roach echoes the sentiment in a huff.

Jaskier grumbles, evidently accepting his defeat. “Ah, fuckin- Wait! Geralt, I’m coming, hold on!”

Geralt doesn’t wait, but he does slow his pace incrementally. The horse sighs at him, and he nudges her back.

He makes sure to wipe the smile from his face before Jaskier manages to catch up.

Geralt had realized his love for Jaskier in the way that a toddler might enter a bath: gentle at first, with one questioning dip of a toe, and then slipping in all at once, kicking and screaming and spluttering in terror before realizing that the warm water is actually kind of nice and far too shallow to drown. A pause, a realization, and a sigh as the heat soothes muscles and wipes away the dirt and grime of the day.

It feels good, Geralt had realized, watching Jaskier prance about in a tavern, Filavandrel’s lute in hand, wailing about whatever monster Geralt had vanquished last. The fluttering in his stomach when Jaskier tosses a wink at him is an alien feeling, but not wholly unpleasant. 

The press of Jaskier’s hands against his back, rubbing salve on a wound, is even better.

Sometimes, Geralt’s mind drifts to Jaskier’s sleep-warm body beside his, soft and pliant and peaceful, despite the thin blanket and worn bedroll that stand as his only shelter from the rest of the world. 

Geralt could be that shelter, if Jaskier wanted him to. But he’ll never offer, never ask. He knows what his answer would be.

It’d been surprisingly easy to make his peace with that. Geralt supposes that when you’ve never dreamt of being loved back, it doesn't make a difference how you feel. It hurts, _Melitele_ , it hurts, every second he has to lie beside Jaskier, close enough to but not touching, but it’s alright. Geralt’s been numb for too long. Perhaps Jaskier will keep him humble in that way. 

He’d found peace in the pain and tucked it between his ribs. It’d been safe there. _He’d_ been safe there.

It hadn’t lasted very long.

Geralt’s metaphorical splash into the tub had come in the form of a wounded Jaskier, wyvern claws piercing a shoulder, shredding, tearing, peeling skin away from bone.

The monster died quickly after that. Geralt would not allow Jaskier to meet the same fate.

He’d carried the foolish bard to an elf healer after cleaning the wound and administering what first aid he had. The healer had melted Jaskier’s skin back together in no time, and Geralt had paid her heavily. He’d tried to forget the sound of Jaskier’s screams.

Jaskier had slept for two days after that. It gave Geralt time to think. Time to assess the panic and horror and utter heartbreak he’d felt when Jaskier’s head had rolled onto his shoulder and muttered, “Geralt,” eyes only half-open from the pain.

Geralt had never cared for someone like this before. It helped him understand why Vesemir had told him to avoid it. It hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

He didn’t leave Jaskier’s side until the bard opened cornflower blue eyes and smiled at him with the light of a dying star. 

“Hello, dear witcher,” he’d said. “You look rather upset. Care to share with an old friend?”

Geralt had swallowed a whimper and allowed himself to place his pounding head in Jaskier’s hands. 

“You’re not allowed to die,” he’d whispered. The bard had only tsked and stroked his hair. 

“I’ll do as I please, you.”

The witcher had straightened at that, overcome by the anger and fear he felt in response.

“No, you won’t,” he’d growled. “You’ll do as I tell you so you don’t get hurt and-” _hide it, cover it, he can’t know, he can_ never _know,_ “fuck up another job.”

Blue eyes had widened in panic. “Did I-”

“No. But don’t do it again.” 

Jaskier had nodded and Geralt had left, to fetch the healer and attempt to figure out whether he was angrier at Jaskier for getting hurt or at himself for reacting as he did.

He’d later decided it was both. 

So, Geralt is in a weird place, emotionally.

Not that he isn’t always, but especially right now.

He knows he’s in love with Jaskier. He knows from a million little things he has no right to notice but does, from the way his body reacts to even just the thought of Jaskier’s touch, from the physical punch in the gut that is the sigh of Jaskier’s smile. 

He also knows Jaskier can never and will never love him back. Witchers are unlovable; Geralt accepts this in the same way that he accepts that if you stab someone, they’ll bleed. Even though Jaskier may consider them friends, platonic love and romantic love are entirely different things. Geralt just takes solace in the fact that Jaskier has stuck around for as long as he has.

Along with that, Geralt knows that his love for Jaskier will hurt both of them in the end. It will either ruin their friendship or get them both killed. Distractions are dangerous in battle. Distractions like Jaskier are what will get Geralt killed.

But that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Geralt can imagine much worse fates than greeting death in the arms of the person you love. 

He can imagine much worse fates indeed.

Two months after Geralt declines to tell Jaskier “what the hell is wrong” with him, he almost gets his wish.

It’s a basilisk. He kills it, but not before it sinks a fang gleaming with poison into his thigh.

It doesn’t hurt, not at first. 

Geralt doesn’t make it back to camp.

Jaskier finds him, covered in blood and sweat and sewer sludge not half an hour after he collapses. Holds his head in one calloused hand, the smooth fingertips of the other gliding over the wound. Jaskier’s voice is frantic, quivering, but even through cracked eyelids and ringing ears, Geralt can tell he’s trying to be strong. 

He loves him for it.

Jaskier has Geralt’s bag of potions from their camp. The witcher just barely manages to lead him through the cleaning of the wound and the application of the correct salves and potions. Jaskier follows his garbled instructions, all quick hands and soothing murmurs when Geralt's body locks up in pain, the basilisk's poison slowly draining from his body. 

Geralt closes his eyes with his head on Jaskier’s thigh, fixating on the steady, if not rapid, thump of the bard’s heart.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _this would not be a bad way to go._

He doesn’t notice when Jaskier wipes his own tears from where they dripped onto the witcher’s head.

Geralt doesn’t die, and soon they part for the winter. This is what they’ve always done, and what they likely will continue to do until the end.

Jaskier leaves Geralt with a wink and a smile and a growing ache between his diaphragm and his throat. Geralt leaves Jaskier with a loaf of bread and a gruff, “Don’t die.” 

It means, _I love you,_ but the bard doesn’t know that. He’ll never know that.

The hike to Kaer Morhen is colder than it’s ever been before. Lately, the fortress has begun to feel less and less like home. 

Lambert has brought a companion this year, a little blonde thing with more fire than the bowels of hell. Geralt walks in on them going at it far more than he would like, which doesn’t always mean they’re fucking. Lambert has always enjoyed a good fight.

Geralt pretends to be indifferent towards them. He never does learn Lambert’s companion’s name, though he’s sure that he’s not alone in that.

When Eskel invites Geralt up to his room, Geralt accepts. He takes comfort in Eskel’s body and warmth and allows Eskel to take what he wants in return.

When they’re done, Geralt turns on his side and faces away from the other witcher, swallowing down his nausea. This is nothing they haven’t done before. If anything, the nostalgic value of it alone should be enough to calm him.

Eskel sighs at his back and leaves the bed. He returns with a damp cloth, which Geralt takes from him and begins to clean himself off. 

“How’s your bard?” 

Geralt almost drops the cloth. “What?”

Eskel huffs a laugh. “Your bard. The one you’ve been traveling with all these years.”

“What about him?” Geralt clenches his jaw. 

“How is he?”

Geralt narrows his eyes at Eskel. “He’s fine. Why do you care?”

Eskel shrugs, the lines and scars of his body stretching accordingly. “Heard some of his songs around. Kid’s got talent. And a flare for the dramatic.” 

Geralt grumbles in agreement and goes back to wiping himself down. The red marks Eskel’s hands had left are already beginning to fade.

“I heard he’s made quite a reputation for himself in a couple of courts across the continent. In some of their beds, too.”

Geralt's stomach rolls.

“You must be so proud of him, whoring himself out to the nobles like he’s-”

“What the _fuck,_ Eskel?” Geralt throws the now soiled cloth down on the floor beside the bed and glares at Eskel. He doesn’t notice his own trembling hands.

The other witcher only hums. “That’s what I thought.”

“ _What_ is what you thought?” Geralt snarls.

“You’ve gone and gotten yourself attached.” The corners of Eskel’s mouth turn down. “You’re only going to get hurt.”

Geralt’s treacherous little heart threatens to speed up and out of its space between his lungs. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Geralt repeats.

Eskel is quiet for a moment before he sets his jaw. “Which one of us are you trying to convince?”

Geralt abruptly gathers his clothes and stalks out of the room, not bothering to put any of them on. His room is just down the hall, anyway.

Eskel makes no move to stop him.

It takes a while after that, but eventually they find themselves in bed together again. They always do.

And Geralt would be lying if he said he didn’t close his eyes and pretend it was Jaskier behind him, inside of him, and not Eskel at all.

Spring comes, and Geralt is the first to leave Kaer Morhen. Vesemir gives him a bundle of supplies from his apothecary, and a warm pat on the back. Lambert and his companion each wish him a cheery, if not unnecessarily sassy, goodbye. Eskel raises an eyebrow but wraps him tight in a bruising hug. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Especially around that bard.”

Geralt can’t even roll his eyes in response. “I won’t.”

They both know it’s already too late for that.

Geralt finds Jaskier in Oxenfurt of all places, pinned between a beautiful woman and his desk. If he clenches his teeth any harder, he’s sure they’ll crack.

He spins in his heel and leaves the lecture hall, telling himself he doesn’t blame Jaskier for being otherwise occupied, for not noticing him. It’s the truth. He doesn’t have to like it.

He _doesn’t_ like it, not in any sense of the word.

 _Don’t be stupid,_ Eskel had said.

Geralt left Oxenfurt, Roach following along beside him, unsure of why her witcher wouldn’t respond when she nudged his shoulder with her head.

Fall comes, with no sign of Jaskier. Geralt knows that, logically, it’s very possible he never left Oxenfurt. The professor he’d talked to had said that the bard is one of their most popular teachers, that everyone loves him, students and faculty alike.

Geralt loves him, too. But that’s neither here nor there. 

It doesn’t matter what a witcher wants, or who he loves. He’s only there to kill monsters and get paid. It’s what he’s good at.

And if he gets hurt along the way, well, so be it. It’s how the job works. Suck it up and keep moving.

So, keep moving Geralt does.

He’s in free fall.

He doesn’t go back to the fortress that winter. What would be the point? It’s much easier to remain where he is, in the snow, bleeding out from a monster-induced gash along his ribs. 

_Maybe this is for the best,_ he thinks. _Maybe now I can find peace._

The wound eventually stitches itself back together and Geralt sighs. Time passes, but, for now, the White Wolf will not.

Years slip through Geralt’s fingers. He doesn’t try very hard to hold tight.

He can’t sleep.

Geralt can’t sleep, and he thinks he may kill himself and take an entire town with him if he doesn’t sleep within the next week.

His near-delirious mind supplies him with an answer: a djinn. 

Yes. A Djinn.

All of his wishes could come true.

All but one. He’d like to hold on to some sense of morals, yet.

So Geralt sets off in search of a djinn.

He finds one in Rinde. Jaskier is there. Geralt hates him for it.

He hates him even more when the bard claims his wishes and nearly gets killed by the djinn. 

_Stupid. Stupid fucking bard, and stupid fucking djinn, and stupid fucking Geralt, and if Jaskier dies so help him Melitele he will shred this world apart inch by fucking inch-_

The mage is beautiful. Geralt is drawn to her. She seems equally drawn to him.

When she heals Jaskier, Geralt is drawn to her even more. To say he likes her would be generous. But he doesn’t hate her. Not quite.

When he uses the last wish, he ties his fate to the mage’s. It’s unfair, he knows. But maybe now he’ll stop loving Jaskier.

He doesn’t.

But he lets the bard remain by his side.

That is, until Borch and the mountain. 

Yennefer is there, this time with a pompous little toy who jabbers on and on about a knight’s duty. Geralt isn’t jealous. But he does not mourn the knight’s death.

Yennefer wants what she cannot have. Geralt tells her it’s useless. He has given up what he wanted. Why can’t she do the same?

She sneers and pushes him away.

Borch falls off the walkway on the side of the cliff, and Jaskier tries to comfort him. Geralt can’t stand it. Can’t stand that, even after all these years, the bard doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and he _shouldn’t_ know. Geralt’s glad that he doesn’t know.

Geralt hates that he doesn’t know.

“Look,” Jaskier says, too close and too far on the rock beside him. “Why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a…” He trails off. Geralt can’t look at him, _won’t_ look at him. “...worthy travel companion,” Jaskier continues. “We could head to the coast, get away for a while. Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.”

Geralt almost laughs. If only Jaskier knew. He wouldn’t have chosen those same words, Geralt can guarantee it.

Instead, he says, “Composing your next song?”

“No, I’m just, uh…” The unease radiating off of Jaskier sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. The bard has no reason to be doing this. He’d be better off trying to woo one of Borch’s dead companions at the bottom of the ravine. 

“Just trying to work out what pleases me,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt says nothing. 

He has nothing to say.

When he wakes up at Yen’s side, naked and warm, he allows himself to forget about Jaskier, and the haunted blue eyes that had followed him into the tent. He allows himself to be lost in violet irises, instead.

It’s nice, he decides. Being with someone who looks at him the way Yen does. It’s soft. Fond.

Perhaps the djinn wish is working after all.

The djinn wish is not working. Yennefer’s furious departure from the mountain makes that very clear.

Geralt regrets the wish. But what good is regret in a life with no rewind switch?

Jaskier tries to comfort him again, and Geralt loses it.

He’s never yelled at Jaskier like that before. Never struck the bard speechless like that. 

It feels horrible, like a barbed arrowhead lodged between ribs, rotting and festering beneath the skin that has so neatly grown over it.

He tells Jaskier that, if life could grant him _one wish,_ it would be to never see him again.

He turns away and realizes what he’s done. But it’s better this way. This way, neither of them will get hurt.

(He’s already hurt.)

The bard slinks away with no protest. The crunch of rocks and gravel beneath his boots sends shards of shrapnel into Geralt’s heart.

He tells himself he doesn’t feel it. He tells himself he won’t cry.

He doesn’t cry.

But, _gods,_ does he want to.

He crosses paths with Yennefer not long after that. Regret can’t break a djinn wish. Nothing can.

She ignores him at first, not looking up when he sits down at her table. She has a paper in front of her, filled with illegible scribbles and scratches and crossed-out lines.

Geralt sips his ale and teaches himself how to breathe.

“So. You got rid of the bard,” she says, apropos of nothing. 

He inhales slowly. So slowly.

“I did.”

“Did you mean to?” she asks, eyes still on her paper. 

“I did.”

She says nothing, only retrieves a larger book from nowhere and slips the paper inside. She opens to a seemingly random page and frowns at it.

Geralt takes another sip of beer.

“He wrote a song about us, you know.”

“I do.” He does.

“What do you think of it?”

Geralt only hums. He’d heard it one time, recognizing the notes to be Jaskier’s at once, listening, transfixed the whole time. The old man performing it hadn’t done it justice, he knows. Still, Geralt had nearly vomited after. 

The next few times he’d heard it after that, he’d made himself scarce.

“I think it’s quite flattering,” Yennefer says. She hasn’t looked at him yet. “To think that even though he’ll paint me as a villain, he’ll give me power in that, too.”

“Is that still all you want, Yennefer?” Geralt finds himself asking. “Power?”

She reaches for his ale and takes a swig, violet eyes still fixed on the page. “I think I’d like to mean something to someone, someday.” She slides the mug back over to him. 

All he can think to say is, “Oh.”

She nods. “You should find your bard. Before he does something stupid and gets killed.”

Geralt sets his jaw. “He’s fine.”

“Mm. Are you?”

He fights a frown. “Yes,” he lies.

She snaps the book shut and reaches out to drain the rest of his ale.

“I’m sorry,” he swallows, “about the djinn.”

Yennefer doesn’t respond, but she does meet his eyes.

They watch each other, mage and witcher, cat and mouse. 

(Geralt’s the mouse.)

“I’m here for one night,” Yennefer says, ignoring his apology. 

“Alright,” he says. 

He follows her up to the room. When they fall into bed together, she holds him down against the lumpy mattress and he doesn’t fight it.

Geralt heads to Cintra for his child surprise. 

When he leaves, childless, horseless, the city is in ruins. 

For once, he truly forgets about Jaskier. Destiny takes over, and all that fills the space behind his eyes is desperation and the need to _find_ and _protect._

Ciri is perfect.

She’s fiery, and smart, and she fits into his arms just right.

She wakes him with her nightmares. He returns the favor.

They work. With and against all odds, they work.

At her request, Geralt tells Ciri about himself. She’s old enough to recognize when he leaves details out and young enough to pry. He tries not to snap at her, but it’s difficult. When Jaskier asked questions, Geralt could tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t feel right giving Ciri the same treatment.

She asks him about Kaer Morhen. It is, after all, where they’re headed. There’s nowhere safer for her. He tells her.

She asks him about Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert. His stand-in father and brothers-in-arms. He tells her.

She asks him about the bard he traveled with for so many years. She asks why he seems sad when she mentions it.

He says, “Don’t worry about it.”

She narrows her eyes. 

They say nothing else.

They come by the burnt remains of a cottage in the woods. The whole scene reeks of Nilfgaard. Geralt does his best not to mourn.

In the forest behind the ashes, Ciri spots something, running towards it before the witcher can stop her.

It’s a mare, brown coat so dark it’s almost black. She’s still wearing a saddle, blood crusted on the reigns. She snorts haughtily at Geralt but bends down her head to nuzzle at Ciri’s outstretched hands.

Geralt names her Roach. Ciri doesn’t question it.

Geralt and Ciri and Roach are quite the little team. This Roach is a little more sardonic than the last, but it doesn’t take long for her to greet Geralt like an old friend. 

She watches over Ciri while Geralt takes another contract. Ciri insists she’s watching Roach, but only halfheartedly. He can tell she’s not thrilled with the idea of being on her own for a couple of days; he’s not either. But they need the coin and he refuses to bring her along. 

So Roach watches Ciri, and Geralt walks away.

The drowner nest is an easy victory. It pays decently, enough so that Geralt stops in a tavern on his way back to gather some real food for Ciri. 

The second he steps inside the doors, a familiar scent hits him. Windswept grass, open fields, the too-sweet touch of honeysuckle oil.

 _Jaskier._

The bard catches his eye warily from the near-empty bar. 

Geralt’s feet carry him over on their own accord, yellow eyes never once breaking from blue. 

“Jaskier,” he breathes. 

“Geralt,” the bard nods back. He turns to the barmaid. “An ale for my friend, if you will, sweetheart.” 

She rolls her eyes but places a full tankard in front of the witcher. Geralt tries to ignore his prickle of jealousy at the nickname.

“So.” Jaskier smiles but it falls flat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Geralt swallows. He doesn’t know why he’s here, next to Jaskier, settling himself gingerly on the stool. His blood is thrumming in his veins. “I had a contract. Drowners.”

“Ahh.” Jaskier wraps deft fingers around the handle of his drink. Geralt helplessly tracks the movement. “Easy money for you then, hmm?” 

“Mm.”

“Want anything to eat?” Jaskier asks. “I’m good friends with the owners of this fine establishment; I’m sure we could get you something worth your time.”

For some reason, Geralt says, “I have to bring some to… my child.” Even his glitching brain has enough wherewithal to refrain from saying her name.

Jaskier’s eyebrows run for his hairline. “Oh, how wonderful! Good to know you two are together now.” He gestures to the barmaid again. “Could we have a couple of meals to go, dearest Mabel? House special.” 

“Jaskier-” Geralt interrupts, but Jaskier waves him off. 

“My treat. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt is silent. Jaskier is acting strange, even by his standards.

“Why are you doing this?” he almost whispers. 

Jaskier takes an unnecessarily long drink of ale. “What, can’t a friend help another friend out?”

“I told you I didn’t want you in my life,” Geralt mumbles. 

Jaskier hides a wince in a snort. “Did you mean it?” 

“At the time,” Geralt admits.

“Now?” Jaskier stares at him, unblinking, eyes clear and aware, undeterred by the fact he’s nearly drained his tankard. Geralt can’t look away.

He’s loved Jaskier for more than a decade now. Since before Yennefer, before Ciri, before almost everything else in his life. People and things don’t stick around for Geralt. They never have.

Jaskier did.

“No,” he murmurs, laying himself bare, naked, exposed. “Not now. Not anymore.”

The bard lets out a breath, deflating. He turns back to the final dregs of his ale. “That’s good to know.”

Geralt searches his face for some kind of real response. He’s feeling too much to read Jaskier’s emotions, much less his own.

His skin is buzzing.

The barmaid sets down three wood tureens on the bar before them. She drops a cloth wrapped loaf of bread beside it. 

“Stew, stew, potatoes,” she says, pointing at the corresponding tureens. “And bread.”

“Thank you, Mable-darling.” Jaskier smiles gratefully at her, and with a sharp pain Geralt remembers when Jaskier used to look at him like that. 

He used to look at him like that often, usually when he thought Geralt wasn’t paying attention. 

Geralt was always paying attention to Jaskier, even though he pretended he wasn’t.

He blinks and realizes both bard and barmaid are staring at him expectantly. 

“Thank you,” he croaks, traitorous voice threatening to abandon him. “This means a lot.”

Mabel’s mouth sets in a thin line as she looks between the two of them. She has to be near Jaskier’s age, but standing beside him she could be eighty. “Anything for a friend of Julian’s,” she says. She doesn’t sound like she means it.

Nevertheless, she procures a cloth bag to transport the food in and sweeps the handful of coins that Jaskier hands her off the bar, neither bothering to count them. 

The bard nods toward the food. “Well, there you go, Geralt. You’re all set to be off on your merry way. Say hello to the girl for me, will you?”

Before he can stop himself, Geralt says, “Would you like to tell her yourself?”

Jaskier freezes. Mable shakes her head, exasperated, and walks away.

“What?”

“She’s asked about you,” Geralt’s mouth continues, ignoring his brain’s warning to stop. “I think you two would be fast friends.”

“What did you… tell her about me?”

Geralt rubs his jaw. “Nothing, yet. I didn’t know what to tell her,” he admits.

A tentative spark lights in Jaskier’s eyes. “What, you couldn’t tell her I was your best friend on the entire continent before you told me to dive off the edge of it?”

“No.” _Breathing is hard,_ Geralt thinks distantly. A dull roar is growing in his ears. 

“What?” Jaskier’s hand is on his forearm. “Geralt, what is it?”

The witcher stares at the hand, eyes wide. He wonders how he looks to Jaskier right now. He probably appears insane.

Jaskier rubs his thumb in a gentle arc on Geralt’s arm. “Geralt. Hey.” 

Geralt must look as frantic as he feels. He snaps his eyes to Jaskier’s, and calms his breathing, so quickly Jaskier pulls his hand away as though he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry. I just-”

_Say it say it say it say it._

“I-”

_-love you I love you I love you I love you._

He clears his throat. He can feel Mable’s attention on them, despite her turned back. “I missed you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier laughs nervously. His eyes are relieved. “I missed you, too.”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. He doesn’t know why, but Jaskier has to know. After all this time, he has to know. “You don’t understand. I _missed_ you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow for a split second before his face goes slack. 

“Oh,” he says, voice small. “I see.”

Witchers have slow hearts, but Geralt thinks his might just leap out of his chest.

Jaskier’s eyes are darting around the tavern, from Geralt to his own hands to the ceiling to the door to the floor. His foot has begun tapping a nervous rhythm against the barstool. 

_Might as well throw the final nail in the coffin,_ Geralt decides. 

“How would you feel about one last adventure?” he asks, steeling himself. “You could come to Kaer Morhen with us.” He forces himself to breathe. “With me.”

Blue eyes land on his and the sheer amount of fear and hope and _something else_ in the bard’s eyes just about knocks Geralt flat.

“I’d love to,” Jaskier murmurs. 

And just like that, Geralt’s heartbeat slows. Or perhaps it stops. He doesn’t know.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Jaskier nods, fear dissipating from his face. “I’m sure.”

A hopeful smile creeps its way into Geralt’s lips. He doesn’t know what this means for them, exactly. He doesn’t know what it means for any of his feelings. Maybe they’ll pretend that Geralt hasn’t just inadvertently confessed his love for Jaskier. But he hopes, he _prays,_ that whatever comes next, it’ll be good.

And it is good.

Ciri remembers Jaskier from the many banquets he entertained in Cintra. She doesn’t hug him as she does Geralt, but the slight tilt of her mouth says enough.

Roach snorts at Jaskier and tries to eat his hair, which, miraculously, the bard does not interpret as a threat of war. The horse receives a laugh and a gentle pat in return.

They plan to spend the night in the inn above Mable’s tavern, after much promising from Jaskier that they would be safe enough. Ciri is ecstatic about the idea of having her own bed, and almost immediately after eating passes out under the sheets.

Geralt, once sure that she’s alright, finds himself in Jaskier’s room.

The two candles on either side of the bed are barely enough light. Jaskier pours Geralt a couple of fingers of alcohol into a tin cup.

“Whiskey in candlelight,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. 

Geralt accepts the alcohol, letting it burn down his throat. “Hm?”

“The color of your eyes,” Jaskier nods, as though imparting some sage wisdom on the witcher. “Whiskey in candlelight.”

“Oh,” Geralt says.

Jaskier sits on the bed and pats the space beside him. Geralt follows suit.

“Did you mean it?” the bard asks. “When you said you missed me?” 

Geralt glances at his lips without realizing he’s doing it. “Yes.” 

“You’ve really got fucked me up, you know that, right?”

Jaskier’s tone isn’t accusing, but Geralt feels it anyway.

“What?”

“You hurt me,” Jaskier says, matter of fact. “I told myself that it was better for both of us. That I wanted nothing to do with you.”

Geralt’s fingers itch to reach out and touch Jaskier, just a gentle brush across his cheek, or his neck, or the collarbone peeking out from the neck of his shirt. 

“And yet here we are,” he rumbles.

A rueful smile twists Jaskier’s lips. “And yet here we are.”

The candlelight flickers in the silence.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers. His eyes track over Jaskier’s face, every line that is there and every wrinkle that isn’t. “I shouldn’t have said any of those things. I was upset and I took it out on you.”

“You did,” Jaskier agrees.

“I shouldn’t have. I never should have let you go.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Geralt tears his gaze from Jaskier, instead focusing on the whiskey in his hands. 

He’d never allowed himself to think about this moment, never let himself dwell on what could have or should have been. He’d honestly given up on ever seeing the bard again, on making things right. He didn’t think he deserved it. It was his own damn fault for falling. 

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he says that last line out loud.

Jaskier hesitates, then repeats, “Falling?”

Geralt huffs a laugh, tilting his cup to see the light catch on the whiskey. “I said I missed you. What did you think I meant?”

“Well, that,” Jaskier says, timid and wanting, “but I didn’t expect you to come right out and say it.”

The witcher looks up to find Jaskier watching him intently, eyes flickering across his face. 

Geralt realizes he suddenly feels quite bold. He sets his whiskey down on the bedstand, briefly leaning across Jaskier to do so. “Would you like me to?”

The bard sucks in a shaky breath. 

Geralt waits. 

The reply is a small nod. 

The witcher swallows and tells himself to be strong.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words low and sure and surprisingly familiar on his tongue. He’s never said any of this before, yet it’s a feeling as comforting and practiced and right as a sword in his hands. 

“I love you,” he says again, just to see Jaskier’s chest jerk as his breath hitches and he clenches his hands tight around his cup. “I’ve known I loved you for almost a decade. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I'm sorry I let this go on as long as it did.”

Jaskier places his cup beside Geralt, and oh so gently takes the witcher’s face in his hands.

“I love you, too, you damn idiot.” He laughs weakly, voice thick. “I’m sorry I let it go on, too.”

Geralt thinks he might shed his own skin and begin to float. He shifts closer to the bard and slips his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” the bard nods, fingers tightening around Geralt’s face. “Yes, you may.”

The kiss is soft- so much softer than he’d expected it to be. He never kissed the women he rented out at brothels, and Yennefer and Eskel both liked to leave their marks on his body. And he’d been fine with that.

But Jaskier is soft. Geralt melts into him, helpless, floating, _soaring,_ and grounded to this moment with Jaskier’s hands on his cheeks and lips on his lips. 

Jaskier swallows the involuntary moan that slips out from Geralt’s mouth. The bard chuckles against his lips. 

Geralt allows Jaskier to guide him gently down into the mattress, laying still as the bard climbs on top and straddles his waist. Fingers travel down his sides and latch on to his hips as Jaskier traces the edge of Geralt’s jaw with his teeth and tongue. Geralt holds on to Jaskier’s thighs for dear life. 

“Question,” Jaskier pulls away and leans on both hands, which are now bracketing Geralt’s head. “Does Yennefer know about this?”

Geralt gapes. “You stopped kissing me for _that_?” 

Jaskier smirks and leans down to drop another kiss on Geralt’s lips, smile growing wider when the witcher tries to follow him back up. “I’m just curious.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt huffs. “Maybe. Probably.” He sighs guiltily. “We’re still bound by the djinn, if that’s what you meant.”

“Mm.” Jaskier bites his lip, a strange mix of jealousy and pride on his face. “I see.”

Geralt furrows his eyebrows for a moment before sliding his hands up Jaskier’s thighs to his ass. The sharp intake of breath he receives in return brings a smug tilt to his lips. “I don’t want to talk about Yennefer anymore.” 

Jaskier leans down on his forearms, the whiskey on his breath mingling with Geralt’s. “No?”

“No,” Geralt rumbles, squeezing Jaskier’s ass with both hands for emphasis. “Just this.”

“Alright,” the bard breathes, “I can do that. Just this.”

And as he presses his lips back onto Geralt’s mouth, Geralt remembers the sensation of free-falling that he’d grown so accustomed to just as he was beginning to love Jaskier. He feels it again, now, here on this slightly lumpy bed with the candles flickering and the whiskey forgotten, and the love of his life above him, smile placed into his. 

Geralt’s free-falling. 

Geralt’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like you all to know how many things i have to do today that i have ignored in favor of writing this fic, one of which is my nearly 40k other geraskier fic that i've been teasing (torturing) [a_static_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world) and [GalaxyTrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyTrees) with for like. almost a month.  
> but hey! this may be the fastest i've ever written a complete fic, so i'm gonna go with it.  
> special thanks to the aforementioned babes above, they had absolutely nothing to do with this fic, but they were supportive nonetheless.  
> come scream at me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) or drop a comment if you so wish! i like to hold them in my little raccoon hands.  
> xx mars


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